


This Year's Gift

by Deannie



Category: Quantum Leap
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 20:37:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deannie/pseuds/Deannie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And there they are, lined up and waiting for him. Seven little presents, not counting the one I got stashed in my own office...</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Year's Gift

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the zine _50_ , celebrating Sam's 50th birthday.

Sometimes, it’s kind of difficult to get my bearings after a leap. And sometimes, like today, it’s like God has decided to give me a break.  


I know this place. _I_ know it. Glancing up at the street sign beside me is just confirmation, because I recognize the campus. I don’t know why. I don’t remember when I was here, but I’m at Columbia University, in New York City, staring across the street at Miller Auditorium. I’m not sure why it rings a bell, but it does.  


“Come on, Roy! Dilly’s not going to wait to start class, you know!”  


The yell comes from another corner, and I look across, seeing a guy who couldn’t be more than eighteen, waving at me. At least, I hope it’s me. I look around to make sure, but I’m the only one here, so he must be talking to me.  


Now, why does that sound familiar?  


Shaking it off as I do most of the random memories that enter my head now, I look both ways and wait while a bright green VW bus zips in front of me.  


“See, I always knew you were the type to listen to your mother.”  


I can’t help but smile. Al just... brings it out of me. And he’s early. I’ve learned not to expect him to find me too quickly. Since that whole business a few years ago with Al’s Place, the leaps have been getting harder. And one thing my swiss-cheesed brain remembers clearly is the first few leaps after it, before the Project found me again.  


Isn’t it ironic that the only leaps I really remember are the bad ones?  


“You sound chipper,” I whisper, bending down and pretending to tie my shoe. It seems like it’s taken years, but I’m finally learning how to be subtle about talking to a guy that only I can see. And he does sound chipper. Cat-that-ate-the-canary chipper. Must be back with Tina.  


“What’s not to be cheery about?” he asks. Oh boy. Now I know I’m in trouble.  


“I guess,” I offer dubiously. “So, any idea why I’m here?”  


“A couple,” he returns, drawling. Something’s going on with him. And that just can’t be good for me. I think I’m a man this time at least. Bell bottoms and a t-shirt. It’s not definitive proof, but I can hope.  


“ROY!” The guy across the street is bouncing impatiently now, and I look both ways again, ignoring Al’s snicker, and cross the street quickly.  


Roy’s friend is tall--taller than me. He’s got long, shaggy brown hair and looks like he’s missed a few meals, but his blue eyes gleam with intelligence.  


“God, man! You _want_ Dilly to throw me out?”  


And Dilly would be...? “Um, no, no,” I answer, trying not to stutter. “I just... didn’t want to get creamed.”  


“’Creamed?’” Al echoes, a grin in his voice. I ignore him for the moment. I can do that all day, if I have to.  


“Dodging traffic is a school sport, man!” Roy’s friend declares, smiling. He leans into the street at right angles to us and watches for errant taxis before darting across. I dart after him, and Al floats serenely beside me.  


“Why am I here?” I whisper, before catching up to the kid, who's obviously a student.  


“Not _quite_ sure yet, Sam,” Al responds. “I _can_ tell you who you are, though.”  


He doesn’t. Just stands there with that grin on his face. God, I wish I knew what was going on with him! “Please,” I finally ask, feeling more than a little exasperated.  


“What’s wrong, Wilkins,” Roy’s friend asks, turning back to stare at me before looking at his watch. “Too old to be running to class anymore?”  


I probably am. No idea how old anymore, but certainly too old to be playing games with Al, at any rate. I pick up the pace, giving Al a spill-it glare.  


“Your name is Roy Wilkins,” he finally provides. “You’re a psychics major at Columbia University. You’re taking a summer class this year. It’s August 8th, 1973.” He pauses, like the date should mean something to me. Should it? Sounds vaguely familiar...  


When I don’t respond, he continues. “Your pal there is John Yalick, also an egghead.” I give him a dirty look as John and I turn a corner and head for what I dimly remember is the physics building.  


“Damn!” John barks, looking at his watch again. “Man, Dilly’s gonna kick me out of class for sure, this time.”  


“Dilly—that must be your professor.” I got that, Al. Thanks.  


“Why?” I seem to remember that my college years were full of students being late for class. None of them got thrown out for it.  


“He’s working on flunking out,” Al supplies, just as John answers, “I probably pressed my luck too far with that last test, don’t you think?”  


I nod to John as he opens the door at the side of the building, using the momentary separation to whisper to Al, “Is that why I’m here?”  


“Could be,” Al answers, smacking the handlink. I’m sure I didn’t design it to take that much abuse. “Ziggy thinks Yalick’s the key to it, anyway.”  


We’re at the classroom now, and John shushes me loudly before we creep in the door, sliding into seats at the very top of the auditorium.  


“Mr. Yalick! Mr. Wilkins! So nice of you to join us.” I’m not even the student here, and I cringe. Down at the center of the classroom is a small, bald man who looks _really_ familiar. I don’t bother to try to figure out why I might know him. Heck, for all I know, he could have been one of _my_ professors--if I ever attended Columbia.  


“Sorry... uh... Dr. Dilly,” I stammer. A titter runs through the room. Oh God, what’d I do now?  


“What you call me as you curse my name in your studies is your own affair, Mr. Wilkins.” But Al _said_ his name was Dilly! “Here in my classroom, you will refer to me as Professor Dilworth...” Dramatic pause, anyone? “Or you will not need to be here at all.”  


“Sorry, Sam.” Somehow, I don’t think you’re as sorry as all that, Al. “Dilly’s a nickname. His full name is Martin Dilworth.”  


“Thanks a lot,” I mutter angrily. Professor Dilly— _Dilworth_ —has decided to continue with his lecture, and John smacks me lightly on the arm.  


“Way to go, Wilkins,” he whispers, laughing at me. “At least it took the heat off me!”  


Exactly what I was going for. Really.  


Al’s just hovering, looking over my shoulder. They’re covering special relativity. Thank goodness it’s something I know about. I won’t look like more of an idiot if he calls on me.  


As we reach the familiar discussion of twins and spaceships, I take advantage of Al’s proximity and doodle a note on the pad of paper in front of me.

> _What does Ziggy say?_

The handlink takes a little more damage. “You’re not here to tutor John.” Good. I remember this stuff, but probably not well enough to save his grade. “You’re here because...” I hope I knew Al was going to be so hard on that thing when I built it. A ghost of a memory, involving a vending machine and a hammer, floats past my mind’s eye and I sigh. I guess it’s held up for this long, right?  


“Oh, here we go!” He pauses for a long moment, and when he speaks again, he’s got that sneaky grin back in his voice. “At noon today—right after class, in fact—John Yalick gets run over by an out-of-control taxi as he’s crossing Broadway on his way back to his apartment.”  


“That’s it?” As the words left my mouth, I knew it was a mistake. A big one.  


“You have a problem with the lesson plan, Mr. Wilkins?” Professor Dilworth asks. What was he talking about just now? Twin paradox... luminal doppler... Oh right! Tachyons.  


“No, sir, I just...”  


“Perhaps you’d like to explain to your fellow students exactly how the time dilation occurs in this scenario?”  


Do I remember this scenario well enough? God, I hope so.  


“Better keep your mouth shut, Sam.” Not bad advice. The professor sniffs derisively at my silence.  


“Thank you so much for allowing me to teach my own class, Mr. Wilkins.”  


“Man, Roy!” John smacks my arm again. “What are you thinking?”  


I’m thinking that I haven’t had a leap this simple in a very long time. And Ziggy’s never figured one out this quickly either. That, I remember...  


“Noon?” I whisper, watching Al nod. “Right after class?”  


“What about after class?” John leans in, looking at me carefully. “Are you high, man? Cause you’re just... I don’t know... not yourself.”  


No. Haven’t been _that_ in a while, actually.  


“Look, Sam, I gotta check something with Ziggy, okay?” The feeling that Al’s up to something persists. “I’ll be back.” His chuckle is... a little disconcerting. “Enjoy the lecture. This should be the first time in a long time you’ve listened to it instead of giving it.”  


And with a _snick_ of the imaging chamber door, he’s gone.  


* * *  


All right! Down to business.  


I barrel out of the chamber and face the obnoxious wall of plastic that is Ziggy.  


“Are we ready?”  


“The leap will occur in approximately one hour and fifty-one minutes.” She’s approximating again. That’s never a good sign.  


“And you’re _sure_ this is going to work?’  


“Of course, Admiral.” Got her wires in a twist, didn’t I? “There is now a 96.549% probability that this leap will be successful.”  


Successful in each and every way, I hope.  


“I’m gonna get a cup of coffee.” I can’t stand sitting there with him and not being able to tell him. I’ll go back as soon as I’m needed. Until then... caffeine.  


   


You know, years ago, I’d’ve been on my third drink of the day. Nowadays, it’s all I can do to keep the promise I made to Sam when he took me on at Starbright. But then, I think anyone deserves a drink after what we’ve all been going through since Sam leaped that first time.  


I wander the halls, ending up three floors down, standing outside his office.  


The door hasn’t been locked for a long, long time--and I’ve always had the key, at any rate. It’s dark and empty and exactly the way he left it. All those neat little stacks of paper and that damn whiteboard—covered in symbols and numbers that only he could understand...  


And there they are, lined up and waiting for him. Seven little presents, not counting the one I got stashed in my own office. I sit at his desk and idly turn his calendar’s pages, discarding sheet after sheet until I come to today’s: August 8, 2003.  


Happy Birthday, Sammy.  


“Admiral Calavicci, please come to the imaging chamber.”  


Shit. Show time!  


* * *  


Al pops in as the class is breaking up.  


“Where were you?” I hiss, watching John gather up his things. It’s 11:45...  


“Just getting a few things done, Sammy boy. I do have other responsibilities.”  


 _Sammy boy?_ All right, what the hell is going on here!?  


“Mr. Yalick?” Professor Dilworth is standing in the center of the nearly empty room, an imperious finger crooked toward John, who swallows nervously. “I believe you and I have something to discuss?”  


Now’s my chance. I head out the door with Al trailing after me.  


“Sam, what’re you doing? You gotta keep an eye on that kid!”  


“Al, what is going on?”  


“Huh?”  


Oh, nice try, Al. “With you? What is going on with you?” I tick the markers off on my fingers. “You’re... cheery—perky, even! You disappear for an hour and half and come back like nothing happened. You and Ziggy have this whole leap figured out liked you’d planned it or something. And,” I sputtered, reaching my breaking point, “You called me _‘Sammy boy’_!”  


He’s trying to deny it, but I know him. Hell, I know him better than I know myself. A lot better, unfortunately. “Sam...”  


I throw up my hands to let him know I know he’s lying. “Don’t try to tell me something isn’t going on, Al—“  


“I’m not,” he cuts in, defensive. “I’m not. There is … _something_ going on. But you gotta trust me, Sam, you—“ The handlink gives a squeal and he stares down at it in horror. “Damn it, Sam! You gotta go after John!”  


Oh no! He was talking to Dilworth—  


“Ziggy says that if you don’t catch up to him pronto, you’re both history!”  


“We’re both—“ What the—?  


“Sam, I don’t have time to explain. Just go after him!”  


Al’s got a panic in his voice that I don’t remember hearing very often, I run back out of the building the way John and I came in.  


“Where is he?” I can’t see him anywhere. And he’s already proven he can outstrip me easily...  


Al smacks the handlink—and for once I echo the sentiment—and points back toward the corner of Broadway and 115th. “That way, Sam! Hurry!” He taps a few buttons harder than he should. “Gooshie! Center me on John!” And he’s gone.  


And I’m running—sprinting. What did Al mean _both_ of us were going to be history? If I don’t save John, does that mean that, somehow, Roy is going to die, too?  


“He’s right here, Sam!”  


I can see Al jumping up and down as I approach the corner, and there’s John, jogging along, anger written in every line.  


“Stop! STOP, YOU NOZZLE!”  


Al’s cries go unheard, and as John doesn’t even pause at the corner, barreling straight out into the street. I put on one last burst of speed, just as I see the cab come sliding out of nowhere. I feel the chain reaction: I hit John, he hits the street... and the cab hits me.  


“Sam!” Al’s beyond panic now, and I try to smile at him—try to reassure him...  


God, this hurts!  


My hip is throbbing, but I don’t think it’s broken--I don’t think anything is. I try to sit up, but John’s hand stops me, and Al’s hand passes through me, an ache in his eyes that he can’t comfort me with a touch.  


“Gooshie, what’s going on?” he demands angrily, pounding away at the handlink. “Why hasn’t he leaped?”  


Why haven’t I? I look up at John, and see tears in his eyes. The same kind of tears that are in Al’s eyes. The same kind I know I’d have if Al were here instead of me.  


“Sam, hang on. You’re going to be okay, all right, Sammy? You just have to hang on a minute—damnit, Ziggy!”  


Oh, God, I wish Al was here. Really here. I wish I could touch him once... just once...  


Is that too much to ask on my birthday?  


“It’s my birthday.” That’s why you thought it should sound familiar, isn’t it, Al? August 8th. Somewhere in the world, I just turned 20.  


“Just another second, Sam. You’re gonna leap!” Another smack of the handlink seems to confirm it to Al. “You did it, Sam! You did it!”  


How old am I where you are, Al?  


I’d ask him, but the world twists abruptly. It’s not like any leap effect I’ve ever felt, but the result is the same. Al and John and the world and my birthday all fade away into nothing...  


* * *  


His office is still dark. I sit behind his desk and sip absently at the coffee that’s long since gone cold. On my sixtieth birthday, Sam gave me this damn mug with a grin on his face. “Over the Hill,” it says. Truer damn words were never spoken.  


I turn away from the door and come face to face with that damn whiteboard, and the table off to the side of it. Seven little presents, all in a row. All waiting for him. I’ve got the one from my office in my hands, and the flashy gold wrappings seem ridiculous just now. Damnit! God, it’s his birthday, for crying out loud! He can’t get one break on his birthday!?  


“It’s enough to make me take up drinking,” I sigh into the dead air. “Again.”  


“I thought you made me a promise about that.”  


The chair crashes to the ground as I turn. He’s here. Really here. “Oh God, Sammy...”  


“I was going to try _your_ office,” he says quietly, hobbling into the room on a pair of crutches that look too short for him. I try to walk forward to meet him, but my legs are even more useless than his right now. “But I got tired, lurching around on these things.” He shrugs, and I see a wince race across his face in the dim light. “Figured I could rest here for a minute.”  


He’s a dream. He must be.. I know what the medic told me when the retrieval program that Dr. Yalick wrote finally kicked in. He’d be fine. He’d come around soon...  


I haven’t let myself have hope like this in eight years. Guess I kind of got out of the habit.  


Sam’s looking down at the ground with a kind of half smile on his face. “Do I get to sit, or is this punishment for running into that car?”  


Huh? Oh, right—the chair. I right it, and he moves even closer to me, trying to sit down. I reach out to steady him... and almost pass out at the feeling of my hand touching his.  


“Oh, God, it’s been so long, Al.” He freezes solid, and his voice is rough, though his tears are hidden in the low light. “I didn’t think...”  


“I didn’t either, kid,” I whisper back. I didn’t think this day would come. I didn’t think we’d ever make it... I lean forward, taking most of his weight as he sags against me in the hug. “I missed you.”  


“I missed you, too, Al. God, you don’t know how much!”  


“I don’t know, Sam. I think I have a pretty good idea.”  


He chuckles, the joy in his tone rapidly making way for pain. I tighten my hold. “You shouldn’t be out of bed,” I scold him, easing him into his chair.  


“You weren’t there,” he says, in his lost-little-boy voice.  


I close my eyes against the pain. “I couldn’t wait there, Sammy,” I murmur. “I couldn’t...”  


“Hope?”  


Always did know me better than I knew myself. A cool grip takes my wrist and he’s turning me to face him. God, I’d almost forgotten what he feels like!  


“Al, you were the only hope I had through all the leaping...” A smile creeps in. “I think I can have enough hope now for both of us, don’t you?”  


But I don’t need hope anymore, Sam. Not with you back. Finally.  


“So... nobody cleaned while I was gone?” he asks suddenly, looking around the dark room. I can feel the past that this last leap changed catching up to me, and I know that he’ll find his equations finished if he looks at his whiteboard. Finished in the stark, precise script of the man whose life he saved thirty years ago today. Other than that, I don’t think I’ve let the place be touched.  


Except for the row of boxes. He’s seen them now, and he flips on the desk lamp, flooding one small area with light. Enough to read the tags.  


“To Sam, from Al. 1996... 1997... 1998...” He looks up at me, and in the light, I can see the grey in his hair and the wrinkles on his face and he’s just as beautiful as he was the day he saved that damn vending machine from me—and saved me in the process.  


There are tears in his eyes as he gestures weakly at the gifts I left for him each and every year. “Al?”  


What am I supposed to say? I wanted you back so badly that every year, I used to dream you’d come home, just to open my gifts? I missed the feel of you in our bed so much that I couldn’t sleep there anymore? I had to have something, some one damn thing, to let me believe that I was going to touch you again? Some day?  


In the end, all I can do is reach down to the desk and pick up this year’s gift, and offer it to him with the kiss I’ve been waiting eight boxes to give him.  


“Happy birthday, Sam.”  


* * * * * * *  
 _The End_  



End file.
